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Page 29
One night, to my utter amazement, I received a letter from Lona which
you will find filed away among my other valuable documents.
It was addressed in her own quaint little hand, and I trembled
violently as I opened the envelope. It was but a brief note, and
ran as follows:
"I am dying, and have much to explain before I go. Be generous,
and do not think too harshly of me. Suspend your judgment until
I have spoken. You must come by stealth, or you will not be
permitted to see me. Follow my directions carefully and you will
have no trouble in reaching me. Go at once to the cave on Malabar
Hill, whistle thrice, and one will appear who will conduct you
safely to me. Follow him, and whatever happens, make no noise.
Do not delay--I can last but little longer.
"LONA."
I did not even pause to re-read the letter, or to ask why it was
necessary to follow such singular directions in order to be led to
her. I simply knew she had written to me; that she was dying; that
she wanted me; that was all, but it was enough. Dazed, filled with
a strange mixture of dread and yearning, I hurried to the cave. It
was already night when I reached it--just such a moonlit night as
that on which, nearly a year before, Lona and I had planned our
elopement; and now that heart, which then had beaten so wildly
against mine, was slowly throbbing itself into eternal silence,
--and I--I had been more than dead ever since.
I looked about on all sides, but no human being was visible. I
whistled thrice, but no sound came in response. Again I whistled,
with the same result. Where was my guide? Perhaps he was in the
cave and had not heard me. I entered it to see, but had barely
passed the narrow portal when a voice said close behind me: "Did
you whistle, Sahib?" The suddenness, the strangeness of this
uncanny appearance, so close to me that I felt the breath of the
words upon my neck, sent a chill over me. I shall never forget that
feeling! Many times since then have I dreamt of a hand that struck
me from out the darkness, while the same unspeakable dread froze up
my life, until, by repetition, it has sunk deep into my soul with
the weight of a positive conviction. I know, as I now write, that
this will be my end, and his will be the hand that strikes. The
fibre of our lives is twisted in a certain way, and each has its own
fixed mode of unravelling,--this will be mine.
When I had recovered from the first momentary shock I turned and
looked behind me. There, close upon me, with his huge form blocking
the narrow entrance, stood Rama Ragobah, my rival, his face hideous
with malignant triumph! I was trapped, and that, too, by a man whom
my hatred, could it have worked its will, would have plunged into the
uttermost hell of torment. I felt sure my hour had come, but my
assassin should not have the satisfaction of thinking I feared him.
I did not permit myself to betray the slightest concern as to my
position--indeed, after the shock of the first surprise, I did not
care so very much what fate awaited me. Why should I? Had I not
seriously thought of taking my own life? Was it not clear now that
Lona, whose own handwriting had decoyed me, had most basely
betrayed me into her husband's hands? If I had wished to end my
own life before, surely now, death, at the hands of another, was no
very terrible thing. Could I have dragged that other down with me,
I would have rejoiced at the prospect!
Ragobah broke the silence. "You have left your stick this time, I
see," he said, as he unsheathed the long knife I had once before
escaped, and ostentatiously felt its edge as if he were about to
shave with it.
"You were in haste, Sahib, when you left me last time, or I should
not now have the pleasure of this interview. Be assured I shall do
my work more thoroughly this time. Behind you there is a hole
partly filled with water. If you drop a stone into this well, it
is several seconds before you hear the splash, and there is a saying
hereabouts that it is bottomless. I am curious to know if this be
true, and I am going to send you to see. Of course, if the story is
well founded, I shall not expect you to come back. That would be
unreasonable, Sahib."
All this was said with a refined sarcasm which maddened me, and, as
he concluded, he began to edge stealthily toward me. So strong is
the instinct of self-preservation within us that I doubt not a
would-be suicide, caught in the act of hanging himself, would
struggle madly for his life were someone else to forcibly adjust the
noose about his neck. At all events, I found myself unwilling, at
the last moment, to have someone else launch me into eternity and,
as I wished to gain time to think what I should do to escape, I
said to him:
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